As Life Slips Away
by Enthusiastic Fish
Summary: An episode tag/missing scene for House Rules. A sad Christmas but still uplifting. Oneshot.


**A/N:** This is one of two Christmas-y oneshots I got inspired to write tonight. I haven't quite finished the second one yet, but it'll be coming, probably tomorrow. This one is inspired by the season 12 episode _House Rules_. If you know what happens in that episode, you might have an idea of what's going on in this one. It's sad, but there's something positive in it, too. I think. :)

 **Disclaimer:** As always, I'm not making money off this story and I do not own NCIS or its characters.

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 **As Life Slips Away  
** by Enthusiastic Fish

He was sleeping.

He had always looked so fragile in sleep. There was something about sleep that smoothed away all the lines he carried during the day, those lines that made him look older, stronger, and more distant.

How many of those lines had been put there by life and how many by the man now watching him?

He could still recall those first days when he had held his son in his arms and seen all the potential he held inside him. How had the years wiped away those days, those feelings? How had he lost the sight of his son and instead seen only what he wasn't...not what he was? What he was should have been enough, and it never had been.

It had taken too much to bring them back in contact again, and even then, it hadn't fixed everything. It had been too long, too much time.

And now, there just wasn't enough time left. He could feel it. There wasn't much longer.

He watched as his son breathed deeply and let out a soft mumble. He smiled. There was something about sleep. He couldn't hide himself in sleep. In the darkness, he had always been more himself. His tears when he had bad dreams, his fears of the monster in the closet, all of them had been expressed in the dark. When he was in the light, he tried so hard to be the tough man his father had wanted him to be.

The sad thing was that his son had always been strong, just not in the way he had thought he wanted.

 _Why can't I say these things to him when he's awake? Why is it always when there is no chance of him hearing me?_

He watched his son sleep. In the dead of the night, there were no walls, no barriers except that of sleep.

Dead of the night. How apt.

He looked out the window and watched the snow drift down. This was not how he had wanted his son to spend his Christmas. Well, if he were honest, this wasn't how _he_ wanted to spend his Christmas, either.

Sometimes, one couldn't choose these things. The timing was just what it had to be.

 _If I don't say it now, when will I?_

He reached over and turned on the light.

"Tim?" he said, softly.

Tim shifted around in the chair that pulled out into a little cot. It was nowhere near large enough for him, but he hadn't complained and he had refused to leave, even as the soft beeps and clicks of the hospital room had made true sleep difficult.

Now, he sat up, bleary-eyed, not quite awake and looked around in confusion.

"What?"

"Tim," he said again, waiting for his son to have time to completely wake up.

Finally, Tim reconnected and he looked over.

"What is it, Dad? Do you need the doctor?" he asked, halfway out of his chair/cot.

"No. What would the doctor do at this point?"

Tim sank back down onto the cot and tried to cover his own feelings.

"You're right. What do you need?"

"I need to tell you something."

Tim did stand up, this time.

"Should I call Sarah? She's with Mom in the hotel, but..."

"No," he said again. "Sit down."

He suppressed a smile as Tim's expression _almost_ became one of frustration. He probably thought that this wasn't at all appreciated, even though it was.

 _How could he know? I've never said._

"What is it, Dad?"

"Merry Christmas."

Tim's brow furrowed. He always looked like that when he was trying to figure out a difficult problem.

"I didn't get a chance to go Christmas shopping this year, but I have a gift for you."

"I don't need a present. The only thing I wanted is..." He broke off. "I don't need anything."

"Yes, you do. You need to hear what I have to say."

Again, that furrowed brow. In a way, it was nice to see his son exerting the same effort to understand his father.

"You need to hear that I never gave you the chance I should have."

"Dad..."

"Don't interrupt me, son," he said. "I should always have seen that you had what I wanted my son to have. You are strong. You are brave. You always give your best effort. I just was blinded by what I thought you should be _doing_. I didn't pay attention, but I'm seeing it, now. I realize that it's too late to do any good, but there it is."

Tim sat there, staring at him for a long moment. Probably, he was trying to ascertain whether or not this was genuine. He didn't blame Tim for that. That kind of expression wasn't something that he had done for years...if ever. Still, he wouldn't have the embarrassment of having been so emotional for long.

They didn't have an emotional father-son hug. That had never been the way they were. Not even impending death could change that, but he could say the words he'd never said before.

Tim turned and looked out the window. The snow was still falling.

"Why couldn't you have waited a little longer to do this, Dad?" he asked. "Why did it have to be at Christmas?"

"That's just the way these things happen, sometimes."

"I wanted you to try again."

"I know you did, but sometimes, you just have to acknowledge that there's no good that can come of fighting a losing battle. Even in the military we sometimes have to acknowledge that."

"There is good, and we're not in the military."

He shook his head, even though Tim wasn't looking at him. He was looking out the window.

"No, Tim. What good would there be of me being sick and completely miserable on Christmas? For another trial that wouldn't work? So I could linger for another few weeks before dying as a virtual skeleton? What you want is a miracle, and we're not getting that. Not even on Christmas."

Tim said nothing.

"I did tell you to spend your Christmas the way you wanted to. You didn't have to be here."

Tim turned around. "I _am_ spending my Christmas the way I want to." Then, he turned back to the window.

He was unexpectedly touched because he was almost positive that Tim meant it, that he wasn't just saying what was expected. Then, he thought about it. Minus the whole dying-of-cancer thing, this was how he had wanted to spend his Christmas, although he would never have admitted it. He wanted to spend time with his son.

Even like this.

"I'm glad you're here, Tim," he said.

Tim turned back around and sat down on the chair/cot.

"I don't know what to do," he said.

"You're doing it. Nothing more you _can_ do. It's okay."

Feeling tired, yet again, he leaned back on the bed, turned out the light and let the silence descend. In the darkness, he could tell Tim wasn't going to speak anymore. That was okay. It wasn't like there was anything they needed to say now. If there were things they hadn't said, hadn't done, they would never happen.

"Merry Christmas, Dad."

The soft voice made him smile, and if nothing else, he was glad to know that he didn't mistake that softness for weakness. Tim was probably stronger than most people he'd known.

After a while, it was easier to sleep than to be awake and he let his eyes close, trying not to be afraid that he'd never wake up again. That was how things were going to go, and really, he'd be lucky if he died in his sleep.

You didn't choose these things. They chose you. All you could do was accept it.

With that final thought, he abandoned himself to the darkness.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim woke up and stretched. Then, he looked over at his father.

...right as the heart monitor flat-lined. For a moment, he panicked and just wanted to get his dad's heart beating again. In fact, he pushed the call button, wanting to get someone here to stop the sound.

Then, he remembered that his father had signed a DNR. This was what he had wanted for himself and it wasn't Tim's place to countermand that final order.

The nurse came in and Tim pointed wordlessly at his father in the bed.

"He's DNR, isn't he?" she asked.

Tim nodded. The nurse turned off the beeping, called in the doctor, and sat with Tim until time of death was called.

"He's dead," Tim said.

"Yes."

Tim nodded again and took a deep breath.

"I'm glad I was here," he said. "It's where I wanted to be on Christmas."

The nurse put her arm around his shoulders.

"I'm sure he was glad you were here, too."

And for once, Tim could agree.

"That's what he told me."

Tim got up and walked over to the bed. He took his father's hand, a sentimental gesture he'd never dared do while his father was alive.

"Merry Christmas, Dad," he said softly.

FINIS!


End file.
